The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The glorious day made one final act of defiance as it passed into night. A rich sunset bathed the city in an orange glow, bringing warmth to grey slate and indifferent sandstone. This same light filtered through stained glass and narrow windows, breaking up the darkness of the Church of Saint-Lambert de Vaugirard. The faint smell of incense still hung in the air, while the flames of a few prayer candles lingered, burnt down to the sand in the tray beneath a statue of the Virgin.

  Duchene had underestimated his daughter. Even now, her eyes were set on the other side of the church, probably scanning for the door to its lower levels. He was starting to fear her in some way – that she had so quickly recalled that Duchene had visited this place and built a story out of it suggested a sophisticated cunning. With a gun to her face, she’d managed to buy them another hour. She’d found moves still to make when all he could see was their inevitable failure.

  The spirit of youth. The young never believe in their mortality, more so when it’s presented clearly to them.

  ‘The Catacombs,’ said Faber. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Downstairs,’ Duchene replied. ‘We’ll need the key from the office.’

  Marienne nodded slowly to him. Was the crypt where she hoped he would act? Perhaps she planned that in the darkness they’d escape – throw a lantern to the ground and run. But that would be rash. Faber’s submachine gun fired so quickly that its barrel burnt, and its magazine contained thirty-two opportunities to kill. He held it at their backs, his finger on the trigger.

  They walked across the church and reached the narrow door to the stairwell. To Duchene’s relief, it was open, and he led them down to Father Ramelle’s office. The narrow windows left more in shadow than light. There was no more whisky in the cupboard; an empty bottle lay in a wastepaper basket beside the oak desk.

  He reached the desk drawer and scanned the room for something to break its lock. The letter opener would snap – what he needed was a crowbar or an axe.

  ‘Why are we waiting?’ asked Faber.

  ‘It’s –’ Duchene said, pulling at the drawer. To his surprise, it opened. He reached under its lip and took out the heavy iron key. ‘We’re also going to need a light. I think there’s a lantern around the corner.’

  He had his torch, but he was looking for openings; a smashed oil lamp would be desperate, but a chance he might have to take to save their lives.

  Faber nodded and jabbed the gun at Marienne. ‘Then let’s go.’

  Duchene felt around the top of the cellar stairs that led down into darkness. The back of his hand brushed against glass, and he soon had hold of the oil lamp Madame Noirot had used. It took a few moments for the wick to catch from his lighter. He increased its length, and soon the lamp pushed back the darkness around them. Picking it up, he was surprised by its weight – not as heavy as he’d imagined, but perhaps it was running low on oil.

  How quickly would it catch if he threw it at Faber? The glass cover would shatter, but the rest of it was metal, and its makers would have taken precautions against breakage. It all seemed unlikely.

  He was back to the idea of plunging them into darkness. Not a good one, he realised as he saw the old wood and bric-a-brac stored at the edges of the cellar. Too easy to trip, to make a noise; too hard to find their way back to the stairs.

  He nodded towards the door at the far end of the room. ‘This way.’

  Faber remained behind them both, gun still trained on their backs. ‘Open it.’

  Duchene walked over with Marienne close beside him. Her summer dress offered little protection against the cold under the church, and goose bumps had risen across her skin. ‘Do you want my coat?’ he asked her.

  ‘No talking, just open the door,’ Faber barked.

  Perhaps the Catacombs were the answer. Could he lose Faber in the maze below Paris? If he held the distance, they might have a chance.

  When Duchene turned the key in the lock, he felt no resistance. It wasn’t locked. He glanced at Marienne, but she was already pushing hard against the door. He joined her, and the door started to move, scraping across the grit and bone that had collected in the chamber beyond.

  It didn’t take long before they were standing at the threshold to the crypt. Marienne’s eyes were wide as she stared across the wall of tombs. The vein in her neck pulsed – her heart was racing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Duchene asked.

  Faber moved up behind him and put a boot in his back. ‘I said, no talking.’

  Duchene stumbled forward, gripping the lamp hard as his right knee hit the ground. He slapped down his left hand to break the fall, and the sting from the cold stone floor shot through his palm.

  Marienne was beside him within seconds. Before he could stand, she was pulling him further into the room, leaning her whole weight back against him while her legs scrambled to move him at speed. Without time to stand properly, he found himself stumbling to the floor as he struggled to keep the lamp from falling.

  Faber rushed into the room, the submachine gun raised. ‘Get up!’

  As Duchene turned, he saw why they had come here. His eyes flicked to Marienne, her face set in defiance, then back to Faber as the German realised a few seconds too late what Duchene and Marienne saw.

  They were not alone.

  As Faber turned, trying to train his weapon on the threat, a shot filled the crypt with a noise like thunder.

  Faber’s legs buckled from under him, and Marienne rushed from Duchene’s side. She was on the German while he blinked, seeming to struggle to make sense of the four men who had appeared from the darkness. He gripped the weapon in his right hand, but his left felt for the dark stain over his thigh. Marienne screamed as she grabbed the submachine gun, wrenching it from his hand.

  Philippe walked forward and reached out to her. ‘Marienne,’ he said, as she held the gun to the ground. ‘You’ve done an amazing job. The gun.’

  She placed it into his hands.

  Duchene closed his eyes. She couldn’t have known.

  Armand, his right arm wrapped in a bandage, strode forward and put a pistol to Duchene’s head.

  ‘Wait!’ Marienne shouted. ‘What are you doing?’

  Philippe flicked a torch into light and sighed. ‘You traded a German major for your lives. But I didn’t have the complete picture – I didn’t know your father had tried to get Armand and Casin killed by Nazis. That’s more than collaboration, that’s treason.’

  The stain on Faber’s trousers was growing. The colour was draining from his skin. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.

  ‘Get him up on his knees,’ Philippe said.

  Casin dragged Faber beside Duchene. He pulled back the slide on his pistol.

  ‘Please, don’t do this.’ Marienne’s face was flushed, and tears were welling in her eyes.

  Jean started to walk towards her. He held his hands up, still offering her choices but making the correct one very clear.

  Philippe closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘There’s no other way, Marienne. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Betrayal by a woman,’ Faber said, as Casin put the pistol to the back of his head. ‘It’s so obvious. So inevitable.’

  ‘Then maybe you should have been smarter,’ Armand hissed.

  Faber stared back at the maquisard. His face now white, the dark rings under his eyes seeming to darken by the second. ‘I’m not talking about me, you cur. How do you think my tanks knew where you had gone? Which house you were in?’

  Armand blinked, unsure.

  ‘Let’s make this quick,’ said Philippe. ‘Lingering is heartless.’

  Faber’s face twisted with rage. Duchene felt numb.

  He tried to watch them all at once. It was as much as he could do to focus on the gun at his head, Armand’s savage grin, Philippe reconciling himself to the role of executioner
, Faber starting to chuckle beside him, the crypt, the smell of decay so close to the dead, Marienne fighting Jean’s arms wrapped so tight around her, Marienne alive to the end, not like the bodies in the crypt around him.

  The smell of decay.

  Duchene threw up his hand. ‘I know where the guns are –’

  The thunderclap of a shot was followed by the lightning flash of a muzzle.

  Duchene shut his eyes.

  And opened them.

  Faber’s left eye was hanging out of its socket where the bullet had passed through his head. He lay in dust that was mingling with blood.

  Duchene turned his head to one side and dry heaved. In this moment of retching and breathing, he was beginning to realise he was still alive.

  Philippe’s hand was wrapped around Armand’s wrist, pointing the pistol into the air as he stared down at Duchene. ‘Five seconds, then the bullet resumes its journey.’

  ‘The guns. If I tell you –’

  ‘You live, yes.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Armand shouted.

  ‘Go. Where are they?’

  ‘They never left this crypt,’ said Duchene.

  Philippe stared at him.

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘They’re here – they’re still here.’ He started pressing his face against the capstones that secured the tombs in the walls around them. He was sucking air through his nose, trying to ignore the smell of blood rising from Faber’s body. ‘They’re with the priest. Can’t you smell it?’

  Armand sneered. ‘Smell what?’

  ‘Death.’

  ‘We’re in a crypt.’

  ‘Bones don’t smell. Rotting corpses do. There’s a body in the walls. I smelt it last time I was here but didn’t realise, thought it was dead rats. If they couldn’t move the body, how could they have moved the six crates? I think Lucien and Kloke only sold a few of the weapons – what they could carry out of here in their hands.’ Duchene inhaled at the edge of a capstone, and the reek of the dead filled his nasal passages. He staggered back, pointing to the tomb. ‘There.’

  Philippe shone his torch at the wall. ‘Jean, Casin.’

  The Resistance fighters rushed forward and worked their fingers around the edge of the capstone, straining and pulling. Casin took out a knife and used it to loosen the stone, millimetre by millimetre. Then Jean put a leg against the wall, almost pushing his entire body at a right angle to the stone. With a crash, it fell to the ground, and the smell of death flooded the room.

  What remained of Father Ramelle was lying on a large supply crate.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Armand ran forward and started to tug at the crate. Ramelle’s corpse seemed to cling to it, his arms draped across the top. Even though bloat had filled his face, Duchene could see where a bullet had entered the priest’s neck. The crate wouldn’t budge, so Casin and Jean rushed to help pull it free, causing the body to peel to one side before sliding onto the floor and releasing new plumes of decay into the crypt. The stench sent a warning to some base instinct – stay away, death is here.

  Covering their mouths, Casin and Jean lowered the crate to the floor. With his good hand, Armand flipped open the reinforced latches and threw back the lid. Wooden brackets held a neat row of rifles in place. They were stacked three rows deep, and only four were missing.

  Philippe approached Duchene and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Where is Madame Noirot?’

  ‘Upstairs. Alive. Locked in her room until the German was taken care of.’

  His relief was lost in the river of emotions that was coursing through him, but he knew, intellectually, that this was good news. ‘I came to visit her the other day. Some things didn’t make sense to me, and I wanted to know if there was another way to enter and leave this crypt.’

  ‘Yes? And?’

  ‘There is. A false wall, a door, connected to the Catacombs. I made a brief search, looking for signs of Ramelle, and all I found was dust, bones and the smell of something dead. But when I spoke to Olivier, Kloke’s French lover, he said Kloke had shot the priest in the church. This must have planted the seed in my mind. When I smelt the decay just now, it finally emerged.’

  Casin and Jean had found a short crowbar among the rifles. It was the perfect size for opening the crates and, so it would seem, sealed tombs. Within moments another capstone crashed to the floor, revealing a second crate. Armand fell on it and tore off the lid. Grenades. Pistols. Some had been taken, but most remained.

  Duchene crossed the room and placed his arms around Marienne.

  ‘Did you know I’d bring us here?’ she said, pressing her face into his shoulder.

  He moved his face closer to her ear. ‘Later. Right now we need to leave, before they realise what Faber was trying to saying to them.’ Duchene wiped the tears from his eyes and took her hand.

  By the light of the oil lamp, Jean, Armand and Casin were examining the contents of the second crate. Philippe was crouched beside Faber’s body, going through his pockets, checking his wallet and recovering his Luger.

  ‘We’re going,’ Duchene told Philippe. ‘I trust you’ll do the right thing by the priest.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Philippe held the Luger in his hand. Although it wasn’t pointed at them, Duchene would have preferred if it was tucked in his belt. ‘I have a question. Did you tell the girl about the crypt? How did she know to bring us here?’

  Duchene’s mind was feeling spent. Slow. He knew the right answers were vital but he was having trouble forming them.

  ‘He didn’t need to,’ said Marienne. ‘I listened to the conversations around me and filled in the gaps. But how did Armand and Casin know where to find you?’

  Smart.

  She’d moved the conversation on. Guided them away from the details of their getting here.

  ‘They called us at your building. You’re lucky you made such a convincing case to bring the German to us. It was a smart plan. A lot rested on you, convincing him your father could lead him out of Paris.’

  Philippe found the Roman cameo ring on a chain around Faber’s neck, glanced at it, and tossed it into a dark corner.

  ‘People can be misled when they’re desperate and drunk,’ Marienne said.

  ‘People can be dangerous when they’re desperate and drunk,’ Duchene added.

  ‘We could use someone like you,’ said Philippe. ‘This fight isn’t over yet.’

  Duchene shook his head. ‘I don’t have much fight left in me.’

  ‘I was talking to your daughter.’

  Marienne blinked. ‘And if I want to, how do I find you?’

  ‘The Sorbonne. In the library. We’ll make our base there.’

  With a nod, she took Duchene by the arm. They left through the door into the gloom of the cellar. He brought out his trench torch. Its glow was dim now, almost gone. He had used it more in the past four days than in the past four years. The bulb needed replacing. It was enough, however, to help them find their way across the cellar.

  Marienne took hold of his arm – guiding him or seeking comfort, perhaps both. She waited until they’d ascended the stairs to the sacristy before she spoke. ‘Did you know for certain where the cache was?’

  ‘Not until I had that gun to my head.’

  ‘You could have died.’

  ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘The radio beside Faber, back in my apartment – did he use it to send those tanks to Olivier’s?’

  ‘Yes. I told him that Resistance members had gone to 54 Rue du Château-des-Rentiers and were going to capture Kloke.’

  ‘It saved my life.’

  ‘That’s what I hoped.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He felt the expectation of her silence, that this was when he should stop and hold her, but he kept moving. Not everything had fallen into place yet. ‘Was Faber in my
apartment before the Resistance arrived?’

  ‘No. Philippe saw him coming, from across the street. Drunk, with that machine gun barely hidden under his coat. I told them who he was and that I’d bring him to the crypt, where they could surprise him without risk of being seen by Germans.’

  ‘You did well.’

  ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’

  Duchene turned to face her. ‘Marienne, where’s Max?’

  ‘Gone. Berlin.’

  ‘But his suitcase was still being packed.’

  ‘He said he couldn’t take me.’

  ‘Marienne?’

  ‘Is that what it was like when she left? Did you feel the same towards one another, or did she love you less than you loved her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think it works like that.’ Duchene held to his point. ‘What did you do, Marienne? Max wouldn’t have left without his sidearm.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were in contact with the Resistance. If I had, then maybe I could have led them to him. He was leaving, deserting, and he refused to take me. He gave me no choice – I couldn’t stay in Paris and be called a collaborator. So I called General von Bühel.’

  ‘Von Bühel?’

  ‘You met him at the Ritz last night. He sent them over.’

  ‘Sent who?’

  ‘Gestapo.’

  ‘Marienne. Where is Max?’

  When she returned his gaze, he understood a distance had grown between them. She was directly opposite him, but he felt as though she was a kilometre away. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Without expression, she said, ‘Executed.’

  ***

  They didn’t speak as Duchene drove the Fiat back to Marienne’s apartment, and a strange silence had fallen over the city. He watched as citizens moved back to their homes with the coming of darkness, so that by half-past-nine there was no one to man the barricades.

  The Champs-Élysées was almost empty. Duchene watched a truck of Germans drive along it, furtive and cautious. A civilian truck, its sides labelled with FFI, turned out from a side street. He stopped breathing as the trucks neared each other, but nothing happened. They passed by with determined indifference.